The Idea of You
by leavinghope
Summary: After a day spent on an emotional case, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes discuss the importance of Victor Trevor and his impact on their future. Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation, suicide in the context of a case (off-screen).
1. Chapter 1

John Watson watched his daughter sleep as he stood in the doorway of his old room at Baker Street. One day, he arrived at his old flat to find Sherlock Holmes had purchased a cot for Rosie, placing it alongside the bed in what was always referred to as "John's room". The room now boasted a toy chest and changing table, and a baby monitor rested near where a nightlight in the shape of a star cast a dim glow. Over the past few months, Rosie and John had slept here more than a few times, when the cases ran late and John couldn't bear to go back to his sterile home in the suburbs. Rosie had eaten her first solids here, teethed her first tooth here, taken her first steps here… into the arms of a delighted and proud Sherlock. Baker Street was more Rosie's home than any other place, and John was giving serious consideration to Sherlock's offer of moving back in. Back "home", as Sherlock had stated, as if it should be plainly obvious. John was always slower than Sherlock about certain things, but Baker Street as his true home was becoming ever more obvious to him, too.

John was grateful Rosie had fallen asleep so easily earlier that evening after Molly and Greg dropped her off. The case had been a rough one, with what had first seemed a tantalizing murder investigation instead concluding as a sad and brutal suicide. The call had come from Sally Donovan the previous evening. A young man (Colin, white, early 20s, single, few A levels, barista at Costa, living alone in Chiswick) had been found with his face disfigured by multiple lacerations under a pillow, asphyxiated. When interviewed, his parents could not come up with anyone who'd want to hurt their son, nor could they think of any new people in his life. That morning, Sherlock, John and Sally had gone to the Costa to interview the victim's co-workers. They related much the same, nothing unusual of note. But then a customer had approached John, saying she was a regular who chatted with Colin a few times per week. John stifled a smile as Sherlock held his tongue, not blurting out the young woman's unambiguous crush on the victim. She said Colin seemed sad the last few weeks, but only when his co-workers could not see his face. Sherlock had drawn a rapid breath at that point and asked if Colin had given her any gifts recently. She seemed startled as she said yes, that he'd given her his collection of _Being Human_ blu-rays, knowing how much she enjoyed the series. Sherlock had cast his gaze down at that point, and then he called Donovan over. In a low voice, he requested her team search bins near Colin's flat and the Costa for any disposed bottles of insulin or syringes.

John murmured, "You think this is a suicide."

Sherlock nodded. "With some self-mutilation added, to lessen the blow to his family by appearing to be a crime instead." He addressed Sally directly. "Injection points will most likely be in the upper thigh. Family would be unlikely to look there even if they suspected self-harm, wanting to respect his privacy, before coming to the conclusion this was murder."

"Jesus. How awful," Sally said, before walking away to give quiet directions to her team.

By the time the empty glass insulin bottle had been found and a suicide note located on an obscure Reddit board, dozens of friends and family members had gathered at the Costa to grieve together. A makeshift flower shrine appeared outside its storefront, and a GoFundMe campaign started to cover funeral expenses. A pensive Sherlock had observed it all.

After Sally had delivered the news to Colin's stunned parents, Sherlock walked silently through the mourners and expressed his sympathies to them. Then he beckoned to John and the two men left the cafe. A mystery solved, but no joy to be found in that today. It was already well into the evening when they arrived at Baker Street. John, concerned by how subdued Sherlock was, asked to stay over.

As John knew he would, Sherlock responded,"You never have to ask, John. You and Rosamund will always have a place here with me."

Trying to make Sherlock laugh, John said, "Oh, I know. Just thought I'd try to set a good example for you by being polite." John was rewarded with an eye roll, but as he gazed at his daughter an hour later, he still was not assured that Sherlock was okay.

"I have to go downstairs to check on your…" John paused. _Uncle Sherlock_ was a non-starter. He would never put Sherlock on the same level as Harry in his or Rosie's life. _Father_ rang most true, if John forced himself to be completely honest, but he did not know how Sherlock would feel about that. Just using his name seemed too impersonal, but for now. "… I need to check on our Sherlock."

Rosie continued to sleep as he spoke to her. John was convinced she slept better at Baker Street, that like both him and her mother, the promise of excitement satisfied her emotional needs and left her at peace.

"Sweet dreams, my Rosie," John whispered, and then he walked down the stairs to the sitting room.


	2. Chapter 2

John hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. The sitting room was dark, illuminated only by the light spilling in through the windows. At first, John thought the room was unoccupied, but once his eyes adjusted to the light level, he noticed Sherlock sitting in his chair. He had changed into his usual bedtime attire - cotton vest, pajama bottoms, blue silk dressing gown. _No intention of leaving the flat again tonight._

"Tea?" John asked.

Sherlock responded, "Perhaps something stronger tonight."

It was an unusual request, but John knew better than to remark upon that. "Alright. I'll root around and see what I can find."

He turned on a lamp in the kitchen, casting its dull glow into the sitting room. John finally could see the sad expression on Sherlock's face. He blew out a deep breath, then took out a few tumblers and an unopened bottle of Bowmore 18. He poured two fingers into each glass, then resolutely put the bottle away. John was all too aware of how easy it was to empty a bottle on a night like this.

The two men sipped in a companionable, yet fragile silence. John was just about to propose lighting a fire when Sherlock said, "Do you think he knew?"

 _Colin_ , John thought. "Knew what?"

"That he would be missed."

John remembered the weight of his gun in his hand and the taste of cold metal in his mouth, the certainty of his decision and his guilt for not following through. "Even if he understood it logically, I'm sure it didn't feel that way to him."

"I always imagined my family would be better off without me." Sherlock drained the scotch from his glass. "As much as I hate to admit it, it hurts I was right."

Aghast, John replied, "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, really, how can you be so shocked? You know what my family has gone through because of me. You've seen the strain between Mycroft and our parents because of Eurus. And Eurus, would she have been sent away if it wasn't for poor, poor emotional William?"

"Sherlock…"

"We didn't even use our first names anymore, John. Had to reboot the whole family to protect me. Tore their daughter away from my parents. They can't bear to look at me."

"That's not true…"

"And now I have to bring us back together." Sherlock mimicked his father's gentle voice, "Oh, it's fine. Let's all meet for dinner in a prison cell and have broken William glue us whole again."

By this point, Sherlock was up and pacing, and John realized Sherlock was letting himself be outwardly angry for the first time. And, like so many people, Sherlock's anger came with a hearty dose of self-recrimination.

"Sherlock. Look at me."

Sherlock stopped and bowed his head.

"Sherlock, it's okay to be angry."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

Sherlock collapsed on the couch, feet on the floor, head in his hands. John remained in his chair, waiting for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock had told him about his visits to Mycroft and Eurus, sometimes with his parents, sometimes not. John had thought that awfully generous of Sherlock, but he had become aware of his friend's great potential to love those he allowed close to him. It saddened John to think of how much his love must be compromised by unwarranted guilt. _No wonder he's so angry._

Sherlock eventually spoke again. "I have started to remember more."

"Your childhood?"

"Yes. Glimpses had started coming to me a ways back, if I'm honest, but I didn't understand what they meant."

John turned in his chair to more directly focus on Sherlock. "Care to share? You don't have to, but I'm here. If you want."

John was surprised when Sherlock immediately launched into a memory. "There was a dog. Redbeard, an Irish setter. He was Victor's. He's actually how we met. Nipped me while our family was on a walk. The dog often visited when Victor did, so I had a bowl for him. I'd always wanted a dog, but Redbeard was as close as I ever got. I confirmed with Mycroft that his family put him down when Victor died. Another casualty of mine. I simply conflated the two. Mycroft used Redbeard as a code word, reminding me of how much caring can hurt."

"Your brother…" John tapered off, not knowing what to say. _Is an arse? Meant well? Fucked up completely? Was only a young boy himself?_

"Yes, well, my parents didn't exactly dissuade him. They were all suffering from my ability to care too much."

John's curiosity got the better of him. "Do you remember how you reacted to Victor's death?"

"No," Sherlock responded quickly. "No, I don't. I honestly hope I never remember that."

"Sounds fair."

Sherlock shrugged. "Sounds cowardly to me."

John thought of Sherlock falling from Bart's, of having Mary die in his arms. "It must have been awful. I don't blame you for not wanting to relive that."

Sherlock nodded at John sympathetically, undoubted understanding the thoughts in John's mind. "I do remember other things. I used to laugh. I used to play and skip and hug my family. I used to like Mycroft, publicly."

John couldn't prevent a chuckle at that. Neither could Sherlock. But then he sighed. "I had a best friend."

Sherlock stared directly at John then. "At your wedding reception, Mary remarked that neither of us had been your first. But you were, for me. You were my first and only best friend. And now I know Victor existed, and the fuzzy memories I have of him remind me of how you must have appeared as a little boy, and I can't even know if these images of him were real. But _he_ was real, Victor, my best friend."

At that point, Sherlock's voice broke. "I used to be normal. I was a normal little boy."

John rose from his chair and walked over to stand next to the sofa. "You are extraordinary."

Sherlock looked up at him. "You say that, but most see a freak, John."

"You've always said that didn't bother you."

"It didn't. But now I…" Sherlock shook his head in frustration.

John prompted, "Now you what?"

"Now I know I wasn't always this way. That I was _made_ to be this way. Out of the best of intentions, to be sure, but I would have been different. And I'm so afraid..."

John gently sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock. He modulated his voice to be soft, non-threatening. "Afraid of what?"

"John, you have allowed me the great honor of being in your daughter's life. But what if I damage her? Not physically, I'd never do that. But despite my love for her, what if I somehow ruin her?"

John saw the despair in Sherlock's eyes. _He really believes he is bad for Rosie, for us._ He placed a consoling hand on Sherlock's shoulders, as his mind raced to find the words to assure his friend. "Nothing could be further from the truth."


	3. Chapter 3

In the dim light of the sitting room, John watched as Sherlock struggled to regain his composure. John's heart broke a bit at this new insight, that Sherlock was desperately afraid of hurting his daughter. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder. "You know I'm right. You'd never hurt her."

"I don't know how you can be so sure, John. I'm an addict. I'm emotionally broken. I've hurt so many people, no one more than you. Perhaps it would be best if you were to keep Rosie from me."

John reached out, clasped the nape of Sherlock's neck, and drew him into his arms. John had known, at some level, that many people probably doubted his decision to allow Sherlock to care for Rosie, to babysit and take on walks and watch overnight. John never suspected Sherlock was one of them. There were so many things John had never said to the trembling man in his arms. Because John wasn't used to saying things. But he remembered a day not too long ago when he was crying in Sherlock's embrace, and he knew he owed Sherlock the truth in words.

"Sherlock, you are a wonderful father to Rosie."

Sherlock let out a gasping sob against John's shoulder, and John held him closer. "I will always regret pushing you out of our lives when Mary died, because both Rosie and I desperately needed you then. We always will. And you are fantastic with her. She lights up when she sees you. She bounces when you play the violin. She mimics your hand gestures, and she always calms down when you comfort her. She loves you. How could she not?"

 _How could she not love Sherlock Holmes when her father has loved him since the day after they met?_ Those were the words John did not say. Those words he knew were true, but never could say out loud. Because that would make it real, even more confusing, and harder to force back deep down inside.

"You are too kind to me, John."

"Nope, none of that. You've been as much of a father to her as I have. A better one, most of the time."

Sherlock shook his head, and John rested his cheek in Sherlock's curls. "You even change her nappies. Do you think anyone would have ever believed that before?"

"It's disgusting, John. Why do people decide to have more children after that?"

Both men laughed, out of relief more than anything. John settled back on the sofa, bringing Sherlock with him. Neither man showed any inclination to let go.

John thought of the nights awake by Mary's side, dreaming of his life with Sherlock. Nights when Mary was up with Rosie, while he texted Sherlock or the woman on the bus. He thought of the gambling app he allowed himself to download to his mobile every few months and then forced himself to delete just as regularly. He thought of the itch his hand felt when it hadn't fired a gun in far too long.

"We all have our demons, Sherlock. And I can say two things with absolutely certainty about them. One, Rosie will have her demons, too. And two, you will not be one of them."

The two men held each other silently. After a few moments, Sherlock ran the tip of his nose from the base of John's neck to his earlobe and inhaled deeply. Chills ran through John as he waited, f _eared, anticipated, hoped_ for what Sherlock would do next. What Sherlock did was burst into giggles.

"Sherlock, did you just smell me?"

Sherlock nodded and nuzzled deeper into John's neck. "You smell like home, John. Why, why is it that your scent means home to me? But it does. It always has." After one more chuckle, Sherlock sighed contentedly. "It is so much better when you're here."

John knew what _it_ meant: depression, addiction, anger, despair… all those things Sherlock struggled with, John did as well.

"Yeah, for me, too."

"Then come home, John. Please."

When John did not immediately decline, Sherlock raised his head to look at him in the dim light. "John?"

Deciding to no longer put off what he wanted, John asked, "May I come home, Sherlock? May _we_ come home?"

Sherlock straightened, moving out of John's arms as he said, "Yes."

"I mean, I know it'll be difficult, having Rosie here…"

"Stop it. I'll be delighted to have both of you here. This is your home."

"As she gets older, she'll need more room." John paused, hating the doubt creeping into his thoughts. "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"Nonsense. It'll be fine. I can let the downstairs flat. We can kick Mrs. Hudson out of hers…"

"Sherlock…"

"John, we'll make it work. Don't talk yourself out of it now. The two of us, we can make anything happen."

After a beat, John nodded. "When can we move in?"

"Consider yourself already moved. I'll call Mycroft in the morning. He'll settle everything: movers, your mortgage, everything."

John allowed himself to relax. "I shouldn't let you do that, but it sounds perfect. Let Mycroft do the work. Yes, let's."

"He owes me. He owes us."

John recalled the horror on Mycroft's face as he watched Sherlock's world collapse around him in an island prison, and he felt a twinge of sympathy. Mycroft had done so much to protect his brother, and his sister, too, after a fashion. But then John also remembered that Mycroft had known who Mary was all along and had allowed him and Sherlock to suffer for her secrets, through a wedding that never should have happened and two shootings that did not cancel each other out, and John thought _Yes, he does_.

After a few moments, Sherlock interrupted John's thoughts. "Do you think I was a good friend?"

"To Victor? I'm sure you were the best."

Sherlock patted John on the knee as he stood up. "Thank you, John. I consider you to be of the highest authority on what it means to be a good friend."

John smiled up at Sherlock, who stretched and then yawned. "I think I should go to bed. This was a rough case for me, and to be quite frank, all of this emotional honesty is exhausting. I'm actually tired."

"Whoa," John teased at Sherlock's admission. "Guess you're a normal human boy after all."

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock said, "A burden, to be sure."

"I'll go to bed soon myself." John leaned his head on the back of the couch. "Just a little too comfortable at the moment, though. Also, I have to take advantage of having the couch to myself. Usually you're sprawled here before I can sit down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Flatmate problems already? Maybe I shouldn't let you move back in." But Sherlock smiled at John fondly and let him know with his expression that he'd never want that. So John did what came naturally and gestured rudely with his hands. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes again and walked towards his room.

However, Sherlock paused as he reached the doorway to the kitchen. With his back towards John, he said, "It was when you shot the cabbie that I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I loved you. I loved you then, and I love you now. It was always you, John Watson." Sherlock rested his hand on the doorframe. "Just thought you should know before you moved back in, in case it gave you cause to change your mind." He turned partially towards John, allowing him to see only his profile. "Good night, John."

John managed a barely audible "Good night, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

John sat on the sofa a long while after Sherlock left the room. He was stunned into stillness by Sherlock's revelation. Sherlock loved John. Stated as simply as if he had uttered _the sky is blue._ And John believed him. Oh, how he believed him. Just because it shook him down to his bones didn't mean it wasn't the truth. He lived in a universe where Sherlock Holmes loving John Watson was a truth as incontrovertible as any natural law. What a glorious, terrifying feeling.

He forced himself off the couch, _his_ couch yet again, and walked quietly to the loo. Going through his nightly ritual did nothing to calm the racing of his heart. If anything, the familiar sight of his toothbrush resting next to Sherlock's accelerated his heartbeat. Evidence of a beautiful domestic _shared_ life.

And now there was the possibility of strengthening the life they already shared, the contentment and love that only ever came to the two men when they were together. But to get there, John would have to be brave, as brave as Sherlock's quiet declaration of love. Because this was not the future John had envisioned. Mary had given him that… a life in the suburbs with a job and a child and a normal life. But it had all been a lie, both one he and Mary lived and even John's desire for that had been a life, a staggering feat of self-deception. He'd wanted to be the perfect husband and father because that is what John Watson was expected to be. He'd wanted the idea of John Watson. But who was he really?

John inhaled deeply and faced his reflection.

John Watson was a man standing in front of a mirror late one night, trying to overcome his fear at not being who he had always tried to be, trying to take his first step towards a truth he'd been running away from for years.

 _Buck up, Watson,_ he silently told himself. _You've faced war, single parenthood, burying a spouse, the seeming suicide of your best friend. An incredible man who now is waiting for you to get up the nerve to meet him halfway, while possibly thinking he's ruined your friendship forever._ John took a deep breath and nodded to himself in the mirror. "Right."

John exited to the corridor and turned to his left. The door to Sherlock's bedroom was ajar. John gently pushed it open.

John quickly glanced around the room, one he'd seldom ventured into. He saw the day's clothes draped carefully over the arm of a chair and the baby monitor Sherlock insisted upon having on his nightstand. And by the golden light of the bedside lamp, John saw Sherlock himself.

John saw the little boy behind the man. The one who had played and cried and hugged and loved just like any other child. That boy would have grown up, played rugby in school, taken lovers in uni, perhaps be married and have children already. But he wouldn't have been Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and freak to some and hero to many, most of all to John Watson, the man who steadfastly loved him and was loved by him in return.

"John?"

John stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

For all that the words had finally flowed a short time ago, nothing could break through the lump in John's throat as he crossed that threshold. He paused just inside the room.

"John?" Sherlock's voice conveyed his concern, his uncertainty, as he placed the book he was reading on the table beside him.

John gestured towards the bed, and Sherlock moved to the side closest to the door. Lying on his back, he reached over and pulled back the duvet on the now empty side, giving John clear permission to join him.

John turned off the lamp and quickly stripped down to shirt and pants before diving under the covers. The dim light filtering through the windows illuminated the wide-eyed startled expression on Sherlock's face.

"Is this okay?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock began to laugh. "You are ridiculous," he managed in between giggles. "Absolutely ridiculous."

John couldn't help but laugh in return. "And I invaded Afghanistan."

After their laughter eventually calmed down, Sherlock said, "In all seriousness, John, I was sitting here afraid I had destroyed our friendship, and then you turned off the light and crawled into my bed and asked me if it was okay. Of course, it's okay. You are always welcome at my side, anywhere I am. Just…"

"… Just what?"

"Why are you here?"

 _And that is the right question, isn't it?_ John knew this was his moment to be brave.

"Because this is where I want to be. Where I've always wanted to be, if we're being completely honest."

"Oh." Sherlock turned on his side to face John. With his head pillowed on one hand, Sherlock looked less guarded than John had ever seen him. Then John noticed Sherlock's right hand protectively placed over his chest, over the scar that Mary's bullet had left there. _God, we have so much we need to talk about. But most importantly…_

"I love you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked a few times, then barely managed to utter, "Oh."

"Is 'oh' all you have to say?"

"Did you talk to me, too, when you thought I was dead?"

That was not any of the myriad questions John had anticipated. "No." At Sherlock's obvious hurt and embarrassment, John continued, "No. I just sat in my chair, across from your empty one and saw you there. Playing your violin, reading a book, complaining you hadn't had an interesting case in ages."

"But you never spoke to me."

"Only the once, at your grave." John knew Sherlock was waiting for him to say something more. "It isn't that I didn't have anything else to say. It's just…"

"…Just what?"

"Like I'd drown in all the words, all the feelings, if I allowed the dam to break."

"I talked to you all the time when I was away." Sherlock's hand left his chest, but stayed safely on the bed between them. "I still do, when you're not here."

John chuckled, but he was only half joking when he said, "I thought you kept talking to me when I was gone because you never noticed me leaving."

Sherlock shook his head, stating earnestly, "You so quickly became a part of me, so integral to who I am. I always feel your presence. Well, almost always."

John thought of the drugs and the timing of when Sherlock used and his flimsy excuses why. He knew Sherlock was, _is_ , an addict, but he regretted his role in the relapses. And never understanding the emotions behind the triggers. _I've been a fool for so long._

"I'm so sorry… for everything."

Sherlock's hand crept ever so slightly closer to John. "Me, too."

"Can we just let this be the last apology? For all the things we've done to each other. Can we just agree to move on?" John knew it was an impossible, unhealthy wish, but fervently wanted complete forgiveness in that moment.

Sherlock echoed his thoughts. "I doubt it's that simple, but yes. Of course. Yes."

Sherlock remained carefully on his side of the bed. John looked at Sherlock's hand, unmoving in the space between them. The hand that coaxed beautiful music from a violin. The hand that gently soothed Rosie to sleep. The hand that had held John's while running through the streets of London and while dragging him up from the depths of a well, always sure and strong, now hesitating to reach across the last remaining space between them.

And John thought of the many times when he had reached for the bottle, when he had reached for his gun or for his phone or for his wallet. Mistakes, every one. But not this time, because this time John Watson reached for Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
